Psychosis
by Cookie-Stories
Summary: Attacking the past that should have been kept hidden forever, it does have its price. And the price isn't a small one.


**A/N: After months, i'm kind of back in this thing from a long hiatus. And guess what, my laptop got wiped of all my story documents. So, sigh. Anyway, I've been watching Nikita for a while now, and then i thought of What If Owen Remembered His Past? And like all things earned though forbidden by oneself, there's always a price to pay. So, first Nikita fic, enjoy! (:**

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A week and a half ago, he was kept locked up within a tiny glass box at the corner of the recruit room. Michael had done so out of the safety of Ari Taserov. For the time it had taken Nikita to rescue her partner in the field from the captivity of Amanda, nobody knew what was going on in that box. Nobody cared.

Three days later, Nikita came back, her partner concussed but in toll. And Ryan was back with Sean, and the whole of Division was a little bit of chaos here and there. Sean sticking by Alex's side the whole while that she was unconscious, Michael thanking god that Nikita's stupidity hadn't gotten herself killed, and that he was blessed with such a brave counterpart. Ryan sorted things out with his superiors over the secure line. Birkhoff drinking a few cans too many and getting dosed on about five cans of Fueler.

And nobody was going to let him out. Nobody noticed. All he got was food and water, and timely baths while he was accompanied by three men with firearms. He felt like a prisoner. For the first few days, he was fine. Going through the daily motions of being kept prisoner inside a comfy cell. Honestly, he liked being alone. It was part of his program, his profile.

Yet time got the best of him. Owen decided he couldn't run anymore. Ari had gone to prison, and Amanda was god knows where in the world, and there he was, pathetic and stuck in that cell just because he had thrown a punch at an old man that could obviously have protected himself with Russian unarmed combat.

The time alone made him think, and every single time he tried to recall his past, the pain grew. And when the pain grew, so did his need. His need to know, to remember. Pain didn't matter anymore. It took pushing, and pushing to his limits and past them, but it all did pay off.

He didn't know what time of the day it was, or if it rained or not, or if the humming of the underground compound really existed or not. He didn't know the days of the week, or the date, or how long he'd been in the cell. None of it really mattered anyway, because he was remembering, and the things he saw was too much to handle. Yet, he wanted to see. He wanted to know it all.

And somewhere along the way, people came in and went out. He didn't know who, didn't see who. He heard the stomp of boots, the clicks of heels, zipping of jackets, shouting, screaming, crying. The bustle of people around him. Was it real? He didn't know. He didn't care. He was remembering.

He heard his name. "Owen?" said the voice. It was Nikita's. He could recognize the voice anywhere. "Owen! Owen, look at me! Can you hear me? Owen!" She screamed. She was scared. He could hear it in her voice. But Owen was deep in thought. He was remembering. He didn't care about the screaming, the shouting, and the crying.

"Somebody, help me!" Nikita yelled into the hallway, into the speaker, for anybody and everybody to hear. The moccasins were there first, the smell of rich and polished black leather. "Owen!" yelled Michael, and Nikita's concerned sobbing somewhere in the background. Creaking, fragile metal seemed to roll into the room too, a little right after.

"Get the glass open! Hurry!" Someone gave the order. And Owen was still somewhere in his train of thought, remembering, and remembering some more. Remembering had no limitations, and there were lots to remember. People touched him, held his body, lifted him into mid air. Floating. That was what it felt like. He was floating.

And someone held his hand, his one between two of the other's. Warm. It felt warm, comforting. He recognized the slender fingers around his own. Again, Nikita. She was holding it. "Everything is going to be fine, Owen, okay? Can you hear me? They're going to fix you. You're going to be fine." He was fine. None of them believed him. And then they brought him somewhere else. But Owen didn't care. He liked where he was, in his remembering.

He could see all the people, and recall all their names, and his family. He had a little sister, Thea, twelve years younger than him, and a younger brother called Ollie. He and Ollie used to play baseball together, and he always said that they would try out for one of the national teams together. "Sammy and Ollie, the dreamers." They'd call themselves, and they had the name until a man came by one day, and took him away.

Special Forces, they said. And somewhere along his journey with them, people died, and he went mad. He lost his mind, he was unstable. It was hell, but now that he remembered, it didn't seem like much hell after all. Hell was not being able to know, and now he knew that his name was Sam. That he had loving parents and two beautiful siblings.

And a tear pricked his eye when he thought about them having to go to his funeral many years back, and how Ollie might be in the national team now and how beautiful Thea would have become now. And although it hurt, it didn't matter. He remembered, and he wanted to tell the whole world that he had.

_I remember_, he wanted to say. But he found that he couldn't. In fact, he couldn't move his lips. He felt... he felt like he'd lost himself. He had lost himself into the pillow drenched with his blood that Michael had found on his bed, and Owen just felt dead.

Maybe he was dead. Maybe in remembering, he had lost himself.


End file.
